


Casting one link at a Time

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: F/M, Kink Meme, Piercings, Shallow characterisation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-20
Updated: 2012-06-20
Packaged: 2017-11-08 05:07:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/439499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt:  You're beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Casting one link at a Time

Not in volume but pronunciation he says the word softly, the ‘c’ rolling off his tongue, the ‘nns’ drawn out like a sweet departure until it resembles two words instead of one. ‘Cunning’ and ‘lingus’. Cunnilingus.

 

Lincoln’s clever tongue is welcome to linger, to map her aborted movements, small groans. Her thighs want to box his ears, hold him immobile and central. She wants to grab his hair, haul him up, feel his weight against her breastbone. He looks wrecked, an invitation to sex. When he slithers up her body he tastes like Olivia, he thrusts the secret flavor into her mouth, shares it with each panting kiss.

 

“Did it hurt?”

 

She had her first piercing at eleven, sitting in a high-backed chair at the hairdressers. Her breasts were a mere suggestion, body lean and strong. Liv had her hair shorn the summer before, was mistaken for a boy as often as a girl. She wanted her ears pierced, a visual aid for those who couldn’t be bothered looking beyond the length of her cut, and had talked her mother into saying yes. She remembers being scared, the material of her shirt bunched between her hands, trying to imagine something foreign, _metallic_ , sliding in so deep. Penetrating. Tearing her flesh asunder. She remembers the hairdresser’s warm reassurance of _It won’t hurt a bit,_ and it didn’t but it was loud; the gun beside her ear, knuckles against her jaw, the pain minimal. There was a second of respite before the hairdresser pierced the left ear as well, and that one flamed red like the sun, hurt, jolted her forward in her seat. Liv had stared at the hairdresser’s reflection in the mirror accusingly, betrayed.

 

Older and more composed, she had her tongue pierced when she was fifteen.  Liv didn’t ask her mother’s permission on that occasion, felt the nub of steel against her palette and liked it. She watched Jenny Kowalski squirm helplessly with each flick of her tongue, letting the stud drag against her clit, catch in her hood, listened to Jenny’s cries and the way she’d (politely) refuse to grind her pelvis in Liv’s face. She kissed Damian behind the school bike shed, calculated and planned, leaving him behind like an invasion, overrun, knees dirty with skirmishes. Fifteen years old and her world was ending, Rachel found religion, Liv found solace elsewhere. She stood in front of the mirror at night, poked her tongue out and made strange faces, ran her fingertip from eyebrow to nostril, from the peak of her nipple to her navel, pinched the flesh between her ribcage, explored her own cunt. When she was eighteen, Liv joined the army. All the piercings went, healed up and sealed over, leaving scar tissue, a dotted map of where she’d been.

 

She’s thirty-four now. Her ears have been pierced, healed, pierced, and pierced again. But it’s not her ears Lincoln is inquiring over. She answers because he’s breathless, because when Lincoln caught the glint of metal between her legs he didn’t hesitate or fumble. Because he says cunnilingus softly, drawn out until the word sounds exotic, the vowels warm liquid, a getaway to her ears.

 

“I like a little pain.”

 

“If you liked pain, you’d have your clit pierced instead.”

 

“I like a little pleasure, too,” she amends.

 

His finger strokes between her legs, spreading wetness. Liv’s come once, urgency traded for slow heat, sticky want. He lets his nail catch against the ring, lifting it gently.

 

Liv was twenty-four when she got her clitoral hood pierced, a small ornament with a ball bearing that aligns perfectly. Lincoln’s eyes are dark. “Do you wear it all the time?” She doesn’t dignify the question with a response, and for a moment, Lincoln looks abashed. “Sorry, stupid question. Forget I asked.” Liv kisses him patiently, wraps her hand in the short hairs at his nape, feels his sense of curiosity like a static charge against her skin. “But what if it heals…when you take it out for long periods of time?”

 

“It does, and it _has_ , when work is crazy, or there’s too many consecutive days in a row. When it heals over, I pierce it again.”

 

He drops the ring, the ball bearing bounces against her clit, a jolt of pure sensation. Liv wasn’t lying, she likes the hurt: the slide of the needle, the steadiness of her own hands as she performs the task, moving a little lower each time, changing the ring to heavier densities, thicker girths, weightier ball bearings. She likes being turned on, titillated at the slightest vibration. “Makes riding a motorcycle fun.”

 

“That image is going to fuel my fantasies for years.”

 

She laughs, turns her head to nip his ear. Lincoln’s bright in bed. The reserve, tidy manners discarded along with his clothing. He shares nothing in common with the solemn FBI agent from another world - other than his sense of curiosity. He fumbles for the vibrator on the bed, flicks it on but leaves it on the mattress. His ass is pale in the darkness, firm, a perfect split apple she wants to bite. Liv’s seen the dimple in the small of his back, the musculature of his legs. His hair’s damp, sweat-soaked, he smells like male and gathering energy. He pinches her nipple between thumb and forefinger casually. “What about here?”

 

“Never. I’ve used clamps.”

 

He applies pressure, twisting the bud cruelly. “Walter would say it’s easy to re-hardwire the brain. Pain and pleasure is all about a matter of increments, increasing one, decreasing the other until the tolerance level extends. It’s baby steps, until one day you wake up and you can’t get hard - or wet - unless it hurts first. A sweet, sweet, sting.” He releases her, the relief hurts as much as the torque, his palm flat against her sternum, sliding over her abdomen, wrist turning until his fingers are inverted and he can touch her piercing again. “I want to run a Y-chain from your nipples to your cunt. I want to tug and see you arch into me.” He grinds against her, bites the side of her neck. Liv can smell herself on his breath.

 

“I can do that.”

 

He shudders, groans into her ear. Olivia raises her legs, feet flat on the mattress, knees bumping his flanks. He caresses her ankle, touches the sharp bones wonderingly. Lincoln’s mouth is pliable, curving into a smile. “Your beautiful, I don’t even know how to respond to you half the time.”

 

He’s occasionally thick headed because Olivia’s getting the kind of response she was hoping for (acceptance), and if he doesn’t understand that, she’s either going to start laughing (a dangerous proposition in bed), or she’s rolling off the mattress and taking her vibrator with her. She hooks her ankle over his shoulder, and when Lincoln rises to forearms, his hips bottoming out in an achingly slow thrust, she’s spread indecently wide. The air compresses in her lungs, body curled in a C as his cock stutters and stabs. She’s come once already but it doesn’t stop Lincoln from snatching the vibrator, sitting back on his haunches, from watching avidly as his cock slides into her. His expression’s slack, somehow youthful. And she thinks – gulping in air – rattled with each rev of the vibrator against the metal of her piercing, that he’s beautiful too.

 


End file.
